[h1]Along the Rispruvan[/h1]
[h2]Misruvani-Voldagrad border[/h2]

Hooves cracked against the pebble-strewn ground. A light dusting of snow covering the cool spring earth. Grass poked through the white covering. A stout horse with a pot-belly trotted along the path. Thick coarse fur flecked with flakes of snow. Riding on its back its master rode confidently and erect, eyes ahead as the horse cantered ahead at its brisk pace.

Across the might Rispruvan, its breadth greater than any city seen by any of the man's people the mountains of the land beyond rose indomitable behind a high cliff. Birds having traveled north for their spring nesting flocked in huge clouds above the river, singing their coarse discordant song.

And with the nonexistent ceremony bestowed on every traveler along this road Ilk passed the marker between borders. The courier turned his head to the idol of the god along the roadside. Raising his fingers to his head and bowed and gestured out to the watcher on the road, Katzcyk.

Having passed the statue, Voldagrad was no different from the Misruvani kingdom behind him to the north. The wooded roadway continued its lone dreary march along the river-side. The birds still cawed and cackled in the mountains on the far-side.

Ilk had made fair progress over these last couple of days. Without hesitation he rode through the day, breaking or even eating a meal from the saddle of his horse. He had packed a week's worth of rations of dried ash bread. The meal was hard between the teeth, and tasteless. But it carried him along the road. When he reached the river he had began stopping to dip his biscuits in the cold water of the mighty river to moisten and soften them.

To drink he had a large goat's skin filled with a fermented bread drink. Fermented with a black bread and sugar from beetroot it held its own without going sour or stale, neither would it turn. The kvass held a moldy flavor all the same, but it was a life-saver on long roads and voyages, keeping water from turning.

Between Misruglaz and  the border he had stopped only several times to sleep at the open farmhouses or hunting cabins along the roadside to spend the night.

Ilk dropped the pace to a trot to give the horse a break. An hour later he drew up close the first village across the border. Climbing a gentle hill, he looked down at a low glade alongside the riverside. The spring melt of the snow had risen the banks to a lower flood-plane dotted by fishermen in small dug-out canoes heading out into the gentle gray waters of the river. Marshy reeds covered the river bank and the thin dotting of trees where the river had flooded over was the only mark that indicated that land was ever there.

From the hill Ilk climbed down the soft gentle slopes into the afternoon daylight, leaving the shade of the forest road behind him. From below the contented song of chickens and bleats of sheep came to him.

The village below was a small collection of hovels and wood and grass huts. No building stood truly tall, and many were little more than enclosed lean-tos with a fenced pasture for their animals. The tallest building was a longhouse that stood in the middle of the town on a low berm, the carved totem of the village god standing just in front of its doors and clear from Ilk's vantage point over the settlement.

As he rode down the hill a man approached him from the village proper. From down the road Ilk spied an elderly man strolling up towards him wearing a white fur lined tunic that hung low and long to his knees. Matted mud-caked trousers hung about spindly legs as he walked up the gravel path.

Raising a hand the man walking towards him hailed Ilk done. “Good afternoon, traveller!” he shouted. Despite his evident weathered age and the failing white in his air the voice that escaped the elder's lips with strong and echoing and they cut the calm, cool afternoon air freely.

“Good afternoon.” Ilk shouted from his horse.

The two closed the distance in silence. The old man stepping aside as Ilk drew near, and instead of continuing down the wooded road joined with Ilk in his journey down the hill. “It is a good day to be out and about.” said the old man, smiling.

Ilk looked down at him and regarded the figure. His skin sagged at his bones and dark splotches mired his pale skin. One eye shone with a crystal clarity, with a blue deeper than the skies; the other was a milky white.

“It is.” Ilk said in a low voice.

“I think it will be a gentle summer this year.” the old man predicted in a fair conversational tone, “But this spring, it will snow plenty before it gets warm.”

“I have watched birds.” Ilk responded, “I can agree.”

Smiling the old man looked up at him and laughed. “Are you too an augur?” he asked.

“No, but I was taught to be one. Then I chose not too.”

“I am sure the strength of the man's individual spirit gives them right to do. But the gods and nature has their own designs for mankind. It is good though that you know how to receive their messages, not many men do and many shirk the wisdom the gods send to them. The bites of wisdom and forewarning that'd lead man to explore their inner strength and power.”

“But if all men could receive that: there would no heroes. We would all be heroes, and with that no distinction between the strong man and the common. My teacher taught me that. Are you a priest?”

The old man nodded and laughed softly, “That I am. I am the chief diviner of our village, seer of things here and there. Humor me boy, do you want to know another sign I have witnessed?” the old priest said, stepping out ahead of the horse and stopping Ilk's journey short of passing the first pasture fences.

Ilk shrugged, “I would.”

“Then I have seen some days before you, another rider pass through our hamlet. Now there is only one road that runs through here and that is the one that passes betwixt the realms. A day after we witnessed armed riders come near our village and turn back. And now you are the third and latest.”

The seer bowed his graying head and kicked the stones in the road with his leather elk-hide moccasins. “If I were not an ignorant man I would not say there was some great intrigue steering in the kingdom of Misuglaz. There has been stirrings since.”

“I am but a messenger, I am here to pass through.” Ilk assured the old priest.

“I am sure you are, I don't doubt you.” he acknowledged, stepping aside so Ilk may continue into the village proper, “But the road is still long and beyond here it winds into the spring flood-planes. The normal road is winding as it travels through the seasonal marsh. It will take you a full day of travel to traverse the distance until you reach your destination. If you come with me, perhaps I will see you get shelter her for the rest of the day and you can continue your journey at first light.”

“That is kind of you.” Ilk thanked him, “But I feel I would make my own good time if I were to continue on.”

“No, no.” the priest insisted, “There are wolves and other beasts that skulk the wet marshes by night, I can not have it on good consciousness if I were to send a fellow seer of the gods' messages into a dangerous landscape. It is better to go by day, when the beasts shy away. As it stands: you are not armed to deal with the beasts.”

Ilk regarded the old man. He looked to be in no way to stop him. If he were to continue he would be incapable of prevent Ilk's progress. But the weight of  the man's reproachful attitude for seeing him off in that way weighed down on his conciousness.

“I have a horse, I can out ride them.” Ilk offered as a counterpoint.

“You might, but the earthy is sticky and soft. She will not charge as fast down the road, and you will be caught. Do, please stay here for the night. I will take you to meet our chieftain, he may be old but he is generous.”

“Alright.” a reserved Ilk consented.

The old priest smiled wide and motioned him to follow. Following him passed the ramshackle huts they worked their way to the middle of the village and the great lodge at its middle.

Standing atop a grassy berm flecked with stoned and surrounded by stones the lodge was a wide, long building. Stout in height, the roof loomed over it like the overturned hull of a large ship which overhung its outer walls. There were no windows, just the crisscrossing beams of wooden planks and upward tree-trunk struts that made the walls of the great hut.

With a gentle touch the old man reached out to the great oak doors of the hall and pushed them open as Ilk hitched his horse to a nearby sapling of a tree. Following him in Ilk stepped into a warmly lit cavern of wood and stone. A musty stillness hung in the air inside the hall, and as the door closed behind the pensive courier he was shut in.

The great hall he stepped into went as far as half the length of the main building. Wooden pillars cut from mature trees supported the wide bowed ceiling above. The pillars too were simply decorated with spiraling bands of red and green. Besides the tables and low crackling fire-pits these pillars were the only things that decorated the chamber.

The old went to the far-side of the room, leaving Ilk behind to wait anxiously in the emptiness.

Ilk was alone, save for a strong youthful man  that sat in the corner of the great hall. With a deeply tanned complexion like light clay he was clearly not a man born in these norther reaches. Inky black hair was tied behind his head in a glossy, dirty pony tail. The man scowled at him from beneath a gentle brow as he apathetically cleaned the underside of his finger nails. Ilk offered him a greeting which he did not return. The young courier's stomach turned uncomfortably as he started to think what he afraid may happen.

The tension in the air was cut when a door on the far-wall opened and the old seer lead out from the back room an even older man, dressed in the humble regalia of a village chief. He was an ancient ruler, thin as a skeleton and hobbling across the floor with a cane. Long braids of thin snow-white hair fell about his head and neck, near totally hiding his weathered crooked face.

At his entrance the dark-skinned man who had sat idly cleaning his nails rose to his feet and wrapped his hands about in front of him out of respect for the elder chieftain. With a heavy dry breath he was lead to a small throne on a raised wooden dias over the hall and was seated. Leaning forward over his knees the chieftain looked down at Ilk half a  room away.

“Come closer.” the old man beckoned in a loud cracking voice. He raised a hand and motioned for him to come, craning forward to peer between the long strands of his wild hair.

Ilk obliged and came near so the old man could see him. As he came close he noticed the dull milkiness in the elder's eyes. He scratched his wrinkled hawkish nose with a warty hand and regarded the courier.

“Ye, you are not from around here.” the old man spoke in a low voice as he regarded him, “Where ar e you from?”

“Misruglaz.” answered Ilk.

“And what is your business in Bran?” the chieftain inquired sharply.

“I seek to deliver a message to the city of Voldagrad. I am on business of his highness King Perciv of the Misruids and the Illmeshk. His business is between those who lead in Voldagrad and his own.”

The old chieftain considered the answer for a bit. “My son ran off to that city!” he spat angrily, “He rode off with that wench Astonov married. I never liked that woman, she was crooked in the head.

“But he had dealings with the bitch, and he went off with her. Left is old father alone abandoning him in time of succession and to curse his soul.” he rung his hands about his knees, his voice cracking as he spoke, “I swore and condemned him. Misruid man, would you consider yourself a loyal man to your father?”

“I have no father, I never knew him.” Ilk said mournfully.

“Then to your liege?” the old chieftain said.

“Aye, I promised to serve his father, and I consider myself bound to my new king Perciv.”

“And so then he is like your father. Good! Be a loyal man to your father.” the chieftain declared. He shook a little as he leaned back, “The noble lands granted to me by rights of nature do not belong in the hands of a man who would ride out and abandon his father to wither and decay in the unforgiving hours of his last days. Misruid man, are you  a good man?”

“I am.” Ilk answered. He found himself taken back suddenly at the course of this conversation. He glanced over at the seer who seemed to be only half surprised. The foreign man in the corner seemed unmoved.

“Then you are a better man than my son.” the old chieftain declared in a low voice, rising from his seat. He hobbled towards the foreign servant in the corner, holding out his hands to him. “On my will and authority I name you an heir.”

Ilk recoiled back, his spine straightening. “Sir, I do not think I have that privled-”

“Horse shit you do.” the chieftain barked. The foreign servant placed in his hands his knife and unsheathed the sword at his belt, handing it over. “Every man has the power to take what he or she wants. It is just that those who do not try to take it are cowards or small minded. I am offering you this, I am a dying man. I do not deserve to whither in my bed.

“Close my life!” the chief demanded, turning to Ilk and walking heavily across the floor, offering him the sword.

Ilk hesitated, looking at the long curled blade offered to him. “I can not...” he said pensively, “I am but a courier.”

“And one you will remain. But you will be one with land!”  the chieftain snapped, “I do not care. Retain your loyalties, and your position; or change it. But I am offering you might and strength and the chance to do mercy.

“So show me mercy.” ordered the chieftain.

Ilk looked about the room. The foreign tan-skin moved not an inch, but watched. The seer, still by the throne nodded slowly; the look in his eyes offering his condolences and encouragement.

With hesitation Ilk reached out and took the sword.

“Whether in duel or in war...” the old chieftain said, “this is how man proves themselves. I am Rostok of Bron, son of Antinov.”

“I am Ilk.”

Rostok bowed, raising the dagger up as if to defend himself. Ilk stood uncomfortably holding the sword weakly up. For a while the two watched each other, with no change. Ilk unsure what to do, Rostok impatiently waiting for the first blows to begin the ritual of death.

Growing weary of the wait, Rostok charged first. Staggering forward on ancient legs he jabbed the dagger forward and Ilk back stepped. His sword moved to slap aside the dagger and metal clashed as the blades met. Rostok didn't take time to recover from the parry and instead charged uncontrollably like a sack of onions into Ilk. Disorganized, Ilk tried to pick the old man up with sword in hand. But Rostok moved about and caught not his hands but the curved saber his opponent was wielding.

The blade cut into the shoulder and into the neck of Rostok as he let himself be run on the blade. His blood flowed freely from the open wound cut across his shoulder and neck. He let out a satisfied grown and his milky eyes rolled back into his head. He fell to the ground, his breaths escaping not from his mouth but from the gash in his neck in wet gurgles.

Ilk stood frozen over the body of Rostok, who lay in his last breaths on the slate ground at his feet. The courier trembled as he looked down, the grip on the sword loosened and it fell from his hands. He had killed his first m an. His entire body fell limp and he fell back.

“Hail to the new chief.” the seer said in a mourning tone, “Long and strong may he reign.”